Sic Semper Tyrannis

The Saddest Thing I've Ever Seen

You may or may not know this. I used to work in a music store. During my time there, it changed from Blockbuster Music to Wherehouse Music. This was back in the days before MP3 meant anything. “MP3” might as well have been some kind of robot hieroglyphics. So, back in those days, people still left their homes to get new music. In my two or three years working retail, I came across all kinds of people: from thug-looking rap listeners who smelled like pot, to pedigreed guys in suits who smelled like deadly aftershave. And everything in between.

One time, one of the pedigreed richies came into the store in a big rush looking for Mozart for Babies or something like that, so as to put a kid to sleep so he could make it with his old lady. I remember him because he offered to give me a $20 tip just for finding it. I didn’t think I was allowed to take tips, so I refused. “Just knowing that someone’s getting laid with my help is payment enough,” I would have said if I were quicker on my feet. Turns out, I was allowed to take tips.

It may sound kind of High Fidelity, but the customers who talked the most music were usually the ones with the most pedestrian tastes. “The new Celine Dion? Check the endcap with her giant face on it. The new Kenny G? Oh, so you’re a jazz fan?” Most of the real music fans just came in and didn’t want to be bothered.

Anyway, this post is about the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. It was a rainy Saturday night and Saturday nights were usually slow, as all of the people with friends were out having fun and all of the friendless people who weren’t too embarrassed of being friendless, would slowly trickle in and keep to themselves throughout the evening. Manager Jay, (the coolest boss I ever had), and I would always wind up working these quiet shifts together, playing CDs with no commercial potential for anyone but people like us.

I came back from rummaging around in the storage room to see Jay sort of staring off out the window as the one customer in the store flipped through CDs in the religious section, which was neither my nor Jay’s specialty. Looking at this customer was like looking at a ghost or skeleton or some hybrid of the two. He was skin and bones, more bones than skin, looked about 70 or so, with gray hair in patches on his head. He wore a plain white T-shirt and gray sweat-pants and he moved at approximately the pace of a glacier. “Just another Saturday night weirdo,” I probably thought to myself and began to go about my business, but Jay nodded his head and widened his eyes as if to say, “come here.”

I’ll never forget what he whispered at that moment-“That guy’s looking for music for his funeral.” Somehow, at that point, our time with this guy became holy. Oh, we didn’t really do anything different, but the time that passed as he was in the store seemed to be heavier time. It’s kind of hard to describe.

I think I’ll forever be haunted by the image of that guy. He is an archetype of loneliness in my head: all alone except for two clerk-strangers in a quiet music store, the strange sound of rock n’ roll played at low volume, searching through wedding albums, old-time gospel music, and classical music for the soundtrack to his own funeral.

I hope that guy went to heaven.

posted by Mike @ 2:49 PM